


lead me home

by bethchildz



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: F/F, Grace PoV, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 20:26:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17587841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethchildz/pseuds/bethchildz
Summary: “I married Nick last night,” you say, and your voice is so shaky it almost disgusts you. Have you always sounded so unsure of yourself?





	lead me home

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry in advance for the angst but apparently this is all my brain could churn out. I promise to write something more uplifting in the near future and in the meantime I hope you find something worthwhile in this little analysis of what could’ve gone through Grace’s mind during That Beach Scene.

The wind had started to pick up the longer you sat on your rock down in front of the beach house – the beach house you almost lost – no – did lose (and aren’t you, in a way, about to lose it again?) It’s blowing your hair into your mouth and your eyes and you’re shivering a little, but you’re not sure it’s the temperature. The alcohol in your veins might have worn off by now, but your limbs ache slightly with the memory of it (you haven’t had a hangover since you were 30, so why now?) Nick is probably waiting somewhere in silk sheets with a homemade breakfast (but not from his own hands, of course) and you ought to join him, but the golden band on your left hand feels too tight all of a sudden – is it the wind knocking that air out of your lungs?  
  
You hear yourself calling her name instinctively like the prayers you would recite in Catholic school – it rolls so effortlessly off your tongue that your ears almost jump at the sound of it. But she calls back like your prayer has been answered – a sanctity you didn’t know you needed until she’s in front of you in all her turquoise glory and she’s rambling and stumbling for her words and it’s so utterly Frankie – so endearing, so charming – it takes another jab directly to your gut. The salty air makes you queasy.  
  
“Oh, Grace,” you hear her say, and it scares you. Was her voice always so soft? There’s a tenderness there that you’re not used to, never with Robert, never with Guy nor Phil and certainly not with Nick – Nick, your husband (why does that word sound so foreign, even within your own mind?) Her hands are on your arms, holding you so tightly you’re not sure if you ever want her to let go but she’s apologising, and you apologise too, and you can’t help it when you reach for her hands. They’re cold, far too cold to be out here by the sea so early. A part of you wants to take them and run, lead her back to the safety of your home (the home you want, of course you do, the home you’ll always want) but instead you manage to say, “You’re my best friend and my partner and I need you.”  
  
Have you ever needed anything so much? Not since the way you would find yourself craving a martini when you would lie in bed unable to sleep, when the hurt and the emptiness and dissatisfaction spent living in a loveless house played through your mind on repeat in cold sheets. Never with this fervour, this certainty. You need Frankie and it’s the start and end of everything. But she’s asking to go home, and her smile is so hopeful, and she looks so young in this moment – this youthful exuberance you’ve never known in anyone else. How do you break the heart of a woman who’s already had her heart broken twice?  
  
“I married Nick last night,” you say, and your voice is so shaky it almost disgusts you. Have you always sounded so unsure of yourself? _Stupid Grace never knows what she wants._ (Except you do, you do!) You want to take it back as soon as the words echo around you between the wind and the waves which you can hear crash upon the shore. Time should stand still, you think, like when the screen fades in an old movie. But it doesn’t fade. The seagulls above you still swirl and swarm, the sea still breaks, and Frankie’s face begins to fall. You feel like you’re falling too, somehow. Maybe if you lay together in the sand you will work something out. But she meets the ground before you do, kneeling before you - so crushed, so defeated. It seems pointless to comfort but you try, down on one knee (the irony is felt sharply and painfully).  
  
She doesn’t speak for a while, and your attempts to say her name get lost in the back of your throat this time. You reach out but you daren’t touch her - not her leg (too intimate), not her arm (too patronising) – so you settle for the sand instead. You hope she knows you’re trying. But she’s uncharacteristically quiet, staring off into the horizon, and you expect a sob that never arrives. The clarity of this moment bubbles up inside you until you’re finally forced to speak.  
  
“Frankie,” you start, but how to finish that sentence? You go with, “I‘m sorry.” It’s a broad statement, one that encompasses too much but not enough – not what she deserves, here, kneeling in the sand. She scoffs. But there’s no bitterness, not really, and it’s worse somehow. Maybe if she was bitter you could fight it out again. Maybe you could fight and drink too much and make another stupid rash decision, but this time maybe it could be a good one. And perhaps you will get up from this sand eventually. Maybe you’ll manage to find the words to explain that you don’t love Nick – never have – that you’ve never loved a man either and it scares you, because you’re 80 years old and you’re only just realising what your future should look like. Maybe you’ll hold her by the hands again, but this time kiss her (because isn’t that what you should have done?) Maybe this time you’ll stop denying yourself the one thing you know you feel, have always felt under the surface. Maybe this time you will finally lead yourself home.


End file.
